Passage West

by Rishi Reddi

  “Señor Singh,” Alejandro said, “what is your intention in coming here?”

  “I would like your permission to take Rosa out from time to time,” Karak said. He did not know all their customs, but he felt this statement to be true. He wanted to spend time with Rosa.

  “For what purpose? You think that because we Mexicans work for you that we don’t protect the honor of our women?”

  Karak saw Esperanza look away. Perhaps she had not wanted her husband’s words to emerge with such venom.

  “My intention is honorable—to see if we should be married.” Wasn’t that what he wanted? Wasn’t that why he should have brought Jivan?

  He glanced at Rosa. She had fixed her gaze out the small window to the side of the table, but at his statement, her eyes widened.

  Karak was encouraged. “If she might have me,” he added. In that moment, he was sure she would.

  He saw Esperanza nod at Alejandro, and Alejandro said gruffly, “There is no similarity of culture, of language, of religion. You think that because we do not own many things, do not have lots of money, we don’t treasure these?”

  “We live in America now, Alejandro. The old things do not matter so much. We must think of our survival. Enjoy life while we can. Make a good living and have a family. There is no more than this.” He wished he did not have to speak. Why had he risked his dignity and position in this way? He berated himself again: Why hadn’t he brought Jivan with him?

  “We Mexicans value our culture. Our women.”

  “I would value Rosa too, if she were to become mine.”

  Esperanza glanced at her husband, and Karak caught the glance. She wanted the match badly. What would Alejandro do now?

  “You go ahead and take her out, Señor Singh.” He was making a show of appearing magnanimous. “I will allow it this one time, and we will see.”

  They agreed there could be a picnic on the following Sunday. Karak was satisfied.

  HE CAME TO FETCH HER in the buckboard, having packed up the food himself after Kishen cooked it, and they went to the only park east of the tracks, situated between the Negro settlement and Japantown. When he realized that too many people would be watching them—a turbaned Hindu consorting with a Mexicana—he turned out of town and went along the dirt path that led to the new plank road. He wished he had a machine, one of those new models that were being snapped up more quickly than Ford could make them. That would impress Rosa; he was sure of that.

  Where there was still shrub, before the sand started, he pulled up the mare and together they spread out their blanket under a mesquite tree on the side of a delivery canal. Arrowweed framed the water. A pleasant breeze shifted the fabric of her dress, the hair of the horse’s mane. He was wearing his finest pants and crossed his legs on the blanket. She hitched her skirt to her calves to sit down. Dainty shoes were fitted on her feet. As they spread out the food, his hand brushed the bare skin of her forearm. He felt a thrill of ice in the heat. In the distance, the sleeping Mount Signal straddled Mexico and the United States.

  She was not shy with him.

  “Why are you courting me?” she asked as they began to eat. His fluency in Spanish came and went. At this question, he stammered, then felt a moment of lightness and laughed when she did. Then he was bothered by that laugh. Was she making fun of him? Did she not think him manly? He had brought roti and beans; he had asked Kishen to make something as close to Mexican food as she could, in an effort to show they could be familiar. But she was taunting him, giggling. “I am a Mexican girl, and you are a Hindu.”

  He corrected her, telling her he was Sikh, not Hindu. That was why he wore the dastar. That was why he wore the iron bangle.

  “Why do they call you Hindu?” she asked.

  “I do not know.” Then he laughed again, though he was disheartened by her question. “We are from Hindustan. So to them we are Hindu. Maybe.” He looked at her. “We call ourselves Hindustani.”

  She did not seem to understand all the nuance. “So I am a Mexican girl, and you are a Sikh.”

  “Don’t we live in America, where such things can happen? Where we are equal?”

  “Does equal mean that we mix like this?” she said.

  SHE CHALLENGED HIM, but not in a way he couldn’t surmount. And he didn’t feel he had impressed her. He did not want to take her to the cinema, even if they would be allowed in, on the west side. He did not want her to see how the people in town looked at him with his dastar. He felt he could not go to the Mexican Hall; he did not know their customs and dances. What did cinemas and dance halls have to do with life on a farm? This is what puzzled him always about western women. They wanted to be courted, but what did courting have to do with real life?

  But she cared about her family, more than she cared about herself. That felt familiar, not like the Anglos, who struck him as cold, distant. She was religious. That felt familiar too. At her suggestion, with Alejandro’s permission, he went with her to worship the next Sunday. Mass was held under a large ramada erected at the edge of the barrio. They sat in back, on a crate that had once held watermelon, out of view of the others. They could barely hear the padre as he spoke from the pulpit. When others knelt on a board placed on the dirt, Karak remained seated. When Rosa went for communion, Karak did not rise. Esperanza and Alejandro had sat in front and Esperanza turned around and caught her sister’s eye. Esperanza smiled—they could see her pleasure that they were there, together. Karak and Rosa left first, so that people would not see them and gossip, but they came back afterward and Rosa showed him all the saints displayed in a wooden cabinet that stood in the front, under the shelter of the ramada. She explained who they were. She was eager for him to know and Karak listened patiently, recalling the figures that he had seen in the churches in the Philippines, on the sides of the roads, and in the buggies. Rosa explained that three older women took care of them when the padre was not here during the week. To Karak, they did not seem too different from the Hindu deities he knew. Even to a Sikh, there was comfort in that.

  Later that afternoon, they drove the buckboard into El Centro. The commercial district was near empty and few people noticed them together, and they walked through the streets, Rosa holding a parasol against the sun. They were in the elite part of town where the Hotel Barbara Worth stood, but even the sheriff’s deputies seemed to be home with their families after church. Karak and Rosa were not bothered; there were no teenage boys to follow them, no wealthy ladies to stare. He saw Rosa’s eyes widen and her exclamation when they stood in front of the jewelry store; she had a taste for gold and diamonds. This too reminded him of home. In the window of the piano store, they saw instruments for sale: guitars, accordions, and a trumpet were propped up in a separate display in the corner of the window. She told him that her mother used to sing beautifully and worked at a hotel restaurant in El Paso, entertaining guests with live music. That was long after her father died, after they crossed the border, ten years ago. Her grandmother had lived with them. But by the time Rosa was fifteen, both her grandmother and mother had died too. Esperanza had wed and decided to move west to Fredonia because Alejandro had told her there was opportunity in the Imperial Valley. Rosa, of course, came with them.

  Rosa and Karak went as far as the furniture store, where the wealthy Anglos shopped, much farther than they would have wandered on any working day. Through the window, they saw the Persian rugs hanging in the back, a mock room displayed with a home telephone hanging on the wall, a showroom for faucets and sinks. A very few houses, the expensive ones close to town, had running water in them.

  “So many beautiful things!” Rosa said.

  “I can buy them all for you.”

  She was still looking through the window when she said, dreamily, distractedly, “We will have such beautiful children.” That was when Karak knew. Just a moment later her face flushed and she giggled, her eyes darting about as if she did not know exactly where she was. She turned away; surely she had not meant the thought to be art
iculated.

  “You feel so sure about me?” he asked, but he was talking to her back. Her hat sat at an innocent angle.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the harvest, last spring. I saw how you acted when Señor Cruz fell in the field. You have a good heart, a strong heart. You jumped on the horse and went immediately to fetch the doctor, like a son.”

  Goodwill swept through him, as it had long ago, when he had loaned Ram money in Hong Kong to buy medicine for his cousin. He had not wanted to ride for the doctor for Ángel Cruz that day. But as he gazed at Rosa’s delicate back and shoulders, he thought he could be who she thought he was.

  That night Karak approached Jivan alone near the settling pond. Jivan was turned away from him, facing the water with his head bent in prayer, whispering the sing-song of Rehras Sahib. Karak had to pay the man the proper respect. He had already failed by not asking him to come to the barrio, but he would try to fix his mistake now. He waited until the prayer was finished, then spoke. “Bhai-ji, as you are the head of our family here, I request your permission to marry.”

  Jivan raised his head but did not turn around. If he was surprised, he did not show it. “You do not need my permission, Karak. You are a grown man.”

  So he had been right that Jivan had minded.

  “If you do not grant me your blessing, then to whom can I go?”

  “Is it the Mexican girl Rosa?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is the family?”

  “They keep a tidy house. They are clean. They are respected by their neighbors. She is an innocent, bhai-ji. And they are not hesitating despite our differences.”

  Jivan turned to face him. “But why are you not hesitating? You are not Catholic. Your children will be raised by a Mexican. They will be strangers to you. They will not speak Punjabi.”

  He had not thought that Jivan would resist him. He had thought only of the wound to Jivan’s pride in not asking for his permission. “I cannot spare time to go home and fetch a wife,” Karak said. But it was more than that; he would not have gone if he could. Something about Rosa made him feel free, unburdened by his past.

  Jivan frowned. “Yes, I had the luxury to travel to Punjab. It is true.” He turned abruptly and walked back toward the house, leaving Karak there, standing alone by the pond. The water shone like blood under the sunset. He turned and followed Jivan.

  “I did not mean to offend, bhai-ji.”

  Jivan did not look at him. They walked together across the crusted earth. “I give you my permission, Karak,” he finally said, without enthusiasm.

  Karak hesitated. “Thank you, bhai-ji.”

  “I went to fetch Kishen in 1910 and bring her back. There was no risk then. I could go without the British government forcing me to stay in India. And the Americans allowed me to reenter without any restriction.” He was explaining something to Karak that he did not need to explain. “It was a different time.”

  “Even if I could, I will not return to Punjab, bhai-ji,” Karak said. “I have no one there except my mother. I will leave to my brothers the few acres I have. Better that I marry and settle here. They will be happy too. They cannot survive without the money I send.”

  Jivan stared at him. “You have my blessing, Karak. Go and do the needful.”

  Karak would have married Rosa anyway, regardless of what Jivan said. But he felt a weight lift from his shoulders that he had not known he was carrying.

  FOR TWO WEEKS, Ram kept his distance from him. After Karak had returned from the first dinner at Rosa’s home, Ram did not ask about it. “They served chicken,” Karak had said, as they cleaned out the packing shed the following day.

  “What?”

  “They served chicken.” He glared at Ram. He picked up the toolbox and headed for the house, leaving Ram staring after him. He would not stand for the arrogance of a man who already had a wife and son to deny that to another.

  That evening, when Karak was bathing in the ditch, Ram came for his bath too. “I mean only that you will lose yourself if you marry her. You know what they say at home, about the mixing of people. Your ancestors will curse you, and your descendants will too. She is outside of our society.”

  “Perhaps you have forgotten, Ram. I am not Hindu.”

  “I am reminding you of the dignity of the dastar you wear.”

  “I know about dignity. We do not believe as you do.” He saw Ram flinch. After all, Ram had never known his father, a Sikh man who was said to have died a hero in battle. He knew the words would hurt.

  They avoided each other after that. They spoke only when others were near, during breakfast or dinner, and only about matters regarding the fields.

  THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY, Jivan accompanied Karak to the barrio. Several children called out to Karak as he arrived. He had some sweets in his pocket, and he gave these out to two or three of them, who scampered away, laughing. The previous two Sundays, men and women had noticed his passing through: a Hindu man with a dastar in the Mexican barrio. But today, with Jivan, Karak drew even greater attention. A few of the Mexicans had worked on Jivan’s farm. He stood a foot taller than most of the residents. Men stood on the thresholds of their homes to stare. Karak could sense their antagonism. He had been seen leaving with Rosa. He was a threat. Later, Rosa would tell him that some men in the barrio had questioned Alejandro about allowing Karak to court her. The women had gossiped about them as they scrubbed their washboards. Now he saw only that a small group of men stared at him as he passed, and he, in response, carried himself with greater boldness.

  Alejandro’s door opened before they knocked. Karak felt a moment of panic. Should he have asked Rosa to marry him before this visit? What would a Mexican suitor have done?

  “Señor Singh,” Alejandro said, looking up at Jivan, allowing them inside the house. “What brings you here?”

  Karak did not want him to grow tense. He said, quickly, “I have come to ask for Rosa’s hand in marriage.”

  A cry rang out from the other room, and Esperanza appeared, her hands clasped together. “¡Gloria a Dios!”

  Alejandro looked from Karak to Jivan. Karak explained, “In our country, it is proper for the head of the family to be involved.”

  Alejandro and Esperanza went into the back room, leaving him and Jivan alone. Karak saw Jivan cast his eyes around the home: the table where he had eaten dinner three weeks ago, the saints clustered near the doorway to the bedroom. Karak wondered where Rosa was. Alejandro emerged with his hands on his hips, but his face showed his ambivalence. He addressed himself to Karak. “Sí, señor,” he said, with too much formality. “Tiene mi bendición.”

  Heat swept through Karak’s body. The future stretched out before him, a settled place, secure and hard-won and different from the past. Rosa emerged from the back room, looking at him brightly. She had been there all the time. He felt light-headed. He had not known himself to still be capable of elation.

  16

  June 1916

  ON THE MORNING OF HIS WEDDING, KARAK DREAMED OF MANILA. HE WAS strolling through the Intramuros near the entrance of the grand cathedral, as he used to. His father was with him. His father did not say or do anything; they walked together side by side; although at that time in Karak’s life, his father was already dead. They stopped on a bridge spanning the Pasig River and gazed upstream. Karak was wearing his old uniform as a security guard at the bank.

  It was not untrue to say he despised his father. He did not know why, on this day of all days, his father would appear to him. He did not know why, after all these years, the city should haunt him. While there, he heard about the Bengalis who had passed through a hundred years before, enslaved, to new shores in Acapulco. He learned these stories from the sailors drinking in the saloons. Manila had always had that Spanish tie with Mexico. Perhaps that was why he thought of it. Now he would have that tie too.

  He woke at dawn. Lying on his back in the dim light, he thought of Rosa, sleeping in the small house
in the barrio. Tonight she would be next to him. He surprised himself. It had been a long time since he had experienced a slow building of desire. There had been Teresa, the woman he knew in Manila who worked in the brothel. He had been a soldier; he had been with his share of women, but it was Teresa who stood out in his mind against the fog of years. Now it would be Rosa.

  She was pretty, yes. But he knew some men would think her face too round, or her arms a bit too plump. No, it was something else—something else that made his thirty-three years feel more like her eighteen. A future lay before him, and he liked it. He could be wealthy; he could be respected. He could surpass who he had been: the second son of a man who had failed in every way there was to fail. He, Karak Singh, would not fail. He would do everything he could to not fail. He would make a name for himself, make his wife grateful, become a success, put humiliation behind him.

  It was still dark outside, and no one else was awake. Even the rooster was not stirring in the yard. He poured water from the olla and splashed it on his face. Rosa was unspoiled by the world. She would defer to him. When they had been riding together on the buckboard the previous week, she had leaned into him so that their shoulders had touched, so that her breast had brushed his arm. “It is so hot here,” she had said, as if it were unfamiliar to her, although she had always lived in the desert heat and cold. She had shyly, charmingly, over the past few days, made fun of his accent in Spanish; he could not roll his r’s properly, she said. Or, he spoke too slowly.

  When they had reached the barrio, he got off the buckboard first, then took her hand to help her down. He had seen the Anglos doing this. He thought it sophisticated, a way of showing authority by not showing authority, of showing manhood by not showing manhood. She put a dainty shoe on the step. He slipped on the mud beside the wheel, and caught himself before he fell. He had been embarrassed, laughing. “You have a beautiful sunrise,” she had said quietly, in English. He was puzzled by this. It was not until he had left, egging the mare into a trot, that he realized that in Spanish, the word for “smile” sounded like the English word “sunrise.” Sonrisa. Rosa had been trying to impress him.